


a caress as to be longing, as to be violence

by Azaphod



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Boundary Exploration, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Panic Attacks, Past Sexual Assault, Recovery, Touch Starved & Touch Repulsed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:01:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28322778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azaphod/pseuds/Azaphod
Summary: So he got away with the barest brushes of contact. He hid in his office and recorded statements and with a deep seated terror brewing in his heart, he pretended everything was alright right up until it wasn’t. Then, of course, the world unraveled around them, and touch became a distant problem. By the time he started to think about it at all, hardly anyone wanted to touch him in the first place; and when someone did it was usually a something, and it wanted to hurt him.And then now, on the run, holding hands with the man he loved, until hewasn’t. If history was to be trusted to repeat, this was the finite moment of freefall before everything came crashing down around him.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 15
Kudos: 124





	a caress as to be longing, as to be violence

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:
> 
> This is not meant to invalidate anyone who is touch repulsed. The Jon in this fic wants to combat his repulsion as a form of moving on and changing his association with touch to something positive. Not everyone can do that, and you don't ever need to take those steps anyways. Nothing about you needs to be fixed, touch is something to be engaged with at your own discretion. 
> 
> I thought about bringing up Jon's asexuality--and how assault can impact that--in this, but in the end it was another can of worms I just did not feel comfortable opening as it hit too close to home. He's still an asexual man, it just isn't brought up.
> 
> Lastly I would ask that any criticism be kept to a minimum. This fic was equal parts difficult, cathartic and very personal to write. 
> 
> Trigger list:
> 
> \- Jon is touch repulsed and there are several, detailed descriptions of him being touched (nonsexually) without consent. Some of which are done by Martin, though not purposefully.  
> \- Referenced/implied mentions of sexual assault. Jon has a conversation about it and brings it up directly, but there’s nothing detailed besides him saying he was assaulted at some point before working at the Institute.  
> \- Later in the fic there is a lot of boundary exploration to do with touch, in which Jon isn’t sure he likes what he’s feeling and accidentally pushes himself too far at one point (He kisses Martin).  
> \- Detailed descriptions of panic attacks, Jon has two back to back. There are also a couple very brief lines of Jon having flashbacks to his assault, again nothing explicitly detailed, but still there.  
> \- Jon vomits at one point, this is brief and not detailed.  
> \- General mentions/depictions of poor self worth and self sacrificing behaviors (Jon).  
> \- Implied self harm scars, very brief (Martin).

Everything that follows leaving the Lonely is a blur of sensation and noise, from the packing to lackluster farewells bid to a shattered Basira. Jon finds himself sitting down heavily on a train bound for Scotland and the weight of it all comes slamming back into him, threatening to crush him into the cheap, uncomfortable seating. He doesn’t know if he wants to cry or to laugh, so he does neither, staring blankly at the wall.

And when that fails to bring comfort, he looks to Martin.

Martin, who isn’t holding up any better, sunken low in his seat beside Jon; eyelids heavy and still shivering with a persistent cold. At some point they had stopped holding hands, he doesn’t remember when--had it been after stepping out of the Lonely? During the bus ride or as they boarded the train? He can’t pinpoint it and his brain fixates on the knowledge, finding a way to loop back into the persistent thought that the last person he had held hands with wanted to kill him. 

Martin’s hand rests in the no mans’ land between them, a clear and open invitation that Jon does not take. 

His own fingers curl inward, close to his chest, prickling. 

Touch.

In the early days of the Archives, it hadn’t been much of a problem. Tim had been the closest thing Jon had to a friend and he was an affectionate person by nature. But he took boundaries seriously, even if Jon never spoke about them aloud. The casual embraces were reserved for the other archival assistants and Tim consigned himself to shooting Jon finger guns and flirty winks in their stead. 

The Sasha he remembers was never a particularly tactile person, and for that he is grateful for multiple reasons. 

And Martin was...Martin. Bumbling, clumsy, yet careful to keep himself out of Jon’s way, lest he invoke his unfounded and unfair ire. 

So he got away with the barest brushes of contact. He hid in his office and recorded statements and with a deep seated terror brewing in his heart, he pretended everything was alright right up until it wasn’t. Then, of course, the world unraveled around them, and touch became a distant problem. By the time he started to think about it at all, hardly anyone wanted to touch him in the first place; and when someone did it was usually a some _thing_ , and it wanted to hurt him.

And then now, on the run, holding hands with the man he loved, until he _wasn’t_. If history was to be trusted to repeat, this was the finite moment of freefall before everything came crashing down around him. 

He flexes his fingers as if he can still feel the imprint of Martin’s hand embedded in his flesh. He wonders if it should upset him. Does it? 

Martin rolls with the movement of the train, and his body is a sudden brand against Jon's. His head resting against the sea soaked fabric of Jon's shoulder, blissfully unaware in his sleep. 

Jon sucks in a breath and his heart rate skyrockets. There’s a reason he avoids touch, why he went to such lengths to keep out of arm's reach. It _hurts_ , every point of contact lighting up his nerves and he grits his teeth against the sudden pain. It isn’t a real pain, it is alright-- _he was going to die, he was young again and he didn’t know where he was and_ \--He is _alright_. 

He pushes Martin away as gently as he can, desperate not to wake him. It’s more of a frantic shove, but Martin doesn’t stir. He wonders if he’s imagining the Lonely there in the compartment with them, he can almost feel it tugging in his chest, crawling fingers looping through his ribs and dragging higher so it can croon falsehoods in his ear. Trying to twist his need for distance into something malicious. 

A tightness that wraps round and round his heart, suffocating and isolating. 

He’s feeding it. That much is sure, if not a revelation of any kind. He shoves himself into the corner of his seat, farthest from Martin, and tries to focus on the scenery flitting by the train window, haunted by the sensation of grasping hands.

\--

They arrive at the cabin still in the early hours of morning, welcomed by birds’ nests in the chimney and brambles as tall as either of them consuming the back garden, which is little more then a squat plot of earth that somehow manages to look violently inhospitable. 

Getting lost in the lull of cleaning is nice, it keeps him floating and safe from his thoughts as he scrubs weeks of grime from the sinks--only to jolt back to reality every time Martin bumps into him. 

It isn’t accidental either. Martin keeps falling into a steady orbit around him, like he can’t stand to be apart from him for more then a moment. Jon can’t help sharing the sentiment, the last thing he wants is to lose sight of Martin again while the leeching cold of unnatural abandonment still clings to them, lessening with every second spent together. 

But in these close quarters intimacy is heralded by touch. It’s the cloying presence of Martin brushing past him to sweep the kitchen, a fond squeeze on the shoulder followed by an elbow nudge, a lingering caress. It is an exquisite form of torture that leaves his skin crawling and repulsed against his will. 

He spends the day dodging the hurt glances Martin tries to hide every time he pulls away. Every step Martin takes forward Jon takes back, like they’re back in the archives again and he’s spitting abuse into a tape recorder as if that’ll save him. He gathers the guilt in his arms and holds it close, another invisible strain to his shoulders, likening himself to Atlas. 

He can only dance himself into a corner for so long. Eventually the sky darkens, eventually Martin yawns--eventually it is time to go to sleep. 

The cabin has one bedroom, and a large bed, big enough for two, with a little wiggle room. Jon stares down at it, sickly dread creeping down his spine. 

“Are you alright?” Martin asks. He’s dressed for sleep, vulnerable and small in his threadbare t-shirt, glasses discarded on one of the bedside tables. 

Jon nods mechanically, “Yes.”

There must be something off in his tone, something that gives him away, because Martin keeps staring at him. Maybe he meant it in the broader sense, hoping that it might encourage Jon to drop those protective, thorn covered walls of his. He hasn’t outright said anything about Jon’s cagey behavior, though he suspects that grace period won’t last much longer. 

Jon braces himself as he pulls the blankets back, miscalculates, and practically rips them off the bed in his haste to climb in. The sudden stimulation immediately overwhelms him. The sheets are already warm. The pillow is scratchy. Martin is next to him. His breathing makes the bed rise and fall. His entire body feels like a live wire snapping in the wind. He forgets to take his glasses off. 

He rolls over, staring at the wall as he fights to control his breathing. He’s never felt so acutely aware of the distance between them, focused entirely on that scant strip of mattress between them. 

He feels the bed move slightly and the lights go out, plunging them into a soft, early evening darkness. 

“Good night, Jon.” Martin’s voice is soft, small with uncertainty. He knows without _knowing_ that Martin’s hand is once again resting palm up and reaching in the darkness. Jon forces his eyes closed and holds himself tightly.

\--

When he wakes it’s still dark and someone is clinging to him. 

A body presses up against his back, breathing hot against his neck. Arms keep his own pinned to his sides, one anchored to the hem of his shirt, unknown fingers touching the skin of his hip. They are lax with sleep, but in his mind they grasp, take.

His mind slams him with a decades’ old fear, adrenaline, and sensation, and nothing in the world could stop the pure desperation that overtakes him as it does. A noise works its way out his throat, primal and barely human in the raw fear of it. He jerks, and then all at once he's thrashing with the terror of a wounded animal. 

Martin startles to consciousness, springing away with a fearful yelp, and it's just enough that Jon can scramble away, out of the sheets and right off the side of the bed. He doesn't stop moving even after his head smacks into unforgiving wooden floors, dragging himself backwards until his back hits the wall. Then he goes still. 

His mind is alight with static, fuzzing the edges of his vision and distorting his hearing. He doesn’t notice Martin’s approach until he’s inches away, and when he does, he can’t help flinching with his entire body. 

Martin's hands cup his face with a tenderness so sweet it aches even as it burns sickly agony into his mind. It reminds the frantic animal inside him that he is not safe; _something was hurting him, he was in danger_. A helpless noise of pain escapes him, and the hands retreat quickly. It doesn’t stop his arms from coming up protectively around his head, bracing for an attack. 

Distantly, Martin is crying too, terrified and hurt. "Jon. Jon, just breathe. C’mon, it’s going to be okay, _breathe_ , Jon."

His vision is starting to blur, so he gulps a lungful of air and it returns to him clearer. He drags another few breaths in and out, enough to see the absolutely devastated state of their room. The blankets hanging off the bed frame, the lamp shade askew from Martin’s haste to turn it on--Martin, tear stricken face, trembling. Nausea threatens to overwhelm him, and he closes his eyes against it. 

“Jon?” Martin asks, “Can you hear me?” 

Jon struggles to find his voice and finds it too abused and croaky to utter a word--had he been shouting? He nods.

Martin slumps. “Christ, you scared the hell out of me. Don’t apologize,” he adds, as Jon opens his mouth try just that. Martin wipes at his face, sniffling. “D’you need some water?” he asks, stumbling to his feet. 

Jon nods again, too late, after Martin’s already gone. 

When he returns, Martin manages to carefully coax him out to the living room, handing over the water with his fingers supporting just the very top of the glass. There’s a deliberate distance between them; Martin at the edge of the old couch, looking tense and tired. He’s got new wrinkles, Jon notices, somewhat manic, and there’s greys in his hair now too. 

Jon grips his glass tight in his hands, the condensation dripping ice cold lines down his fingers. He barely feels it. 

“You need to tell me why that happened,” Martin starts. Then at Jon’s blank look, quickly amends, “or at least what caused that, so we can avoid it happening again,”

“It’s fine, Martin.” Jon says and the words sound laughable even to his own ears. As though he can get away with it that easily.

True to form, Martin bristles. All those new lines in his face turning down. “It clearly _isn’t_ , Jon. You don’t get to shut me out after that. I don’t ever want to see you like that, _ever_.” He lets out a breath, some of the fight drains out of him, leaving him haunted, fearful in a painfully human way. Guilt crawls up his throat, digging in its razor sharp claws.

“It was...I wasn’t expecting the touch.” Jon rasps finally. It feels hollow, lacking in substance and context. 

“The touch?” Martin echoes, frowning. 

“You touching me-- _anything_ touching me has a chance of sparking that reaction.” Jon sighs, “I’m sorry, it’s not you.”

“That’s-that’s a really harsh reaction to me shifting around in my sleep, Jon. Is it the Lonely? Because I-I get it,” Martin says, “it makes things that shouldn’t hurt _hurt_ \--”

And there it is, the perfect out. Jon could agree, blame it all on the lingering effects of the Lonely still eating away at him and part of it might even be true. But it would still be a lie, and not one he could hide behind forever. Martin wouldn’t let him distance himself under the guise of being Lonely, he would fight tooth and nail to keep him close and present, unknowing to the hurt he would inflict. 

“That’s not all of it.” Jon chokes out. 

He swallows the lump building in his throat. Panic is starting to mount again, building up into a cacophony in the back of his mind. He forces his breathing into carefully timed inhales and exhales, though it doesn’t quell the terror tremors in his arms, the churning sickness in his stomach.

“I’m going to tell you something, and I need you to not say anything until I’m finished,” Jon says, “please,” he tacks on, with desperation. 

Martin nods. He almost reaches out despite the distance between them, as if to put a reassuring hand on Jon’s shoulder. There’s something humorous in that, somewhere.

Jon holds the words on his tongue, working them over as they try to crawl back down his throat, to remain a secret thought of only in quiet times of dissociation. When he finally forces them out, they sound foreign on his ears, spoken by a stranger. It’s almost comforting. 

“When...when I was...” the stranger starts. They are being very careful. They don’t have the Archivist’s gift for pulling beautiful trauma to a watcher’s observation, but that’s alright. Martin doesn’t need to know the details. “Before the Institute,” they settle on, “I was assaulted. Sexually. I survived the encounter just fine, no lasting physical damage. I never went to therapy, I never told anyone, besides you, just now. I don’t know if it was because of some sense of shame or because I just wanted to pretend it never happened. But it did, and this is the aftermath.”

The stranger looks up, they spread their arms and hold them aloft, gesturing over themself with a sardonic smile that vanishes as quickly as it comes. 

The weight of the confession does not leave them, there is no relief in it, no lessening of a burden. There comes a moment of clarity that they’ve only ever experienced in the seconds before vomiting; that terrible, sickly moment of realization, a heat that rolls over them like a shiver. In the split second between bolting for the bin and heaving their guts up into it, they catch sight of the indescribable expression on Martin’s face.

When there’s nothing left to throw up, they pull back, trembling with the effort, and rest their forehead against the cold metal lip of the bin, groaning softly. 

There is the sound of footsteps, far off. 

“Jon?”

Jon makes a noise caught between a cough and a sob. 

“Do you--” Martin comes into view, still looking unknown, towering above him. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jon snarls, and distantly a part of him startles at the vitriol in his voice, but in the moment there is nothing but the animal instinct to bare his teeth, to protect the soft undersides of his stomach and throat, curled up in a defensive cower on the floor. 

Martin hovers, surprised, before he drops down, scooting a good five feet back on his knees; his body deliberately relaxed and unassuming. It’s a mannerism Jon hasn’t seen since the early days working in the archives and Jon stares at him. He seeks out any trace of revulsion in his face; he wants to see it before it can sneak up on him while his defenses are compromised. 

“You’re safe here, Jon,” Martin says softly, disarmingly. “I love you and I’m so proud of you for telling me that, it was very brave of you.” 

It’s the first time since the Lonely that Martin’s said those words to him. Jon stamps down the unhinged, hysterical laugh that almost bursts free from him. 

“It’s okay,” Martin continues, “It will be okay, I love you.”

Jon ignores him, too busy waging war within himself; cycling between viciously hating himself and then, unfairly, Martin. He wants to take the words back, but it’s too late. They hang in the air above his head, unmovable, and he _despairs_.

They stay like that for hours, or maybe only a few minutes, it’s impossible to tell. There’s a clock on the wall Jon leans against, but moving to check it means taking his eyes off Martin, and he isn’t prepared to do that just yet. Martin keeps up a steady murmur of soothing words, offering up declarations of love and praise with his palms down on the cold floor.

It takes a long time for any of it to sink in, to reach the scattered points of Jon’s mind, and even longer for his breathing to even out, for his body to come down from the panic attack that had swooped in on him. Mortification tries to worm in to fill the void frenzied fear left behind, but there’s nothing left to feel it, he’s too tired to do anything but shudder, spread too thin and shattered across the cabin’s floor.

He goes boneless against the wall. “Martin?” he tries, it comes out little more then a slurred jumble. 

“Hi, love.” Martin says softly, there’s a pause as his brow furrows, and he glances down and to the side with a humorless laugh. "I guess I know why you were avoiding me so much now. I thought I--God, I’m _so_ stupid." 

"I'm-" 

"Don't you dare apologize, you haven't done anything wrong." Martin rubs at his face, scrubbing until his skin goes ruddy. He exhales loudly, looking at Jon with watery eyes. “I shouldn’t have pushed you to explain right away, that was stupid. Don’t get me wrong though, I’m going to be bloody cross with you later for letting it get to this point, but now really isn’t the time for that, I’m sorry.”

Jon shrugs, the assurances gliding right off his shoulders like water. Martin takes in his empty expression and his own face softens. 

“Can I-” Martin struggles for a moment, “Can I do anything? I know you don’t want to talk, that’s okay. But I don’t want you to be in pain right now.”

“Just-” Jon bites his lip, tasting tacky bile and copper. What could he ask for, what more could he take? “Stay.”

Martin’s expression fractures, shatters to pieces. There are fresh tear tracks on his cheeks. “Of course, Jon. Could I ask you some questions? Nothing about, _that_ , just boundaries?”

There’s nothing in the world he’d rather avoid more then that, but the lack of boundaries landed them here, up in the early hours of the morning, stinking of adrenaline sweat. So he nods.

“You said anything touching you can trigger this, should I stop touching you in general?”

“No, it’s fine.”

Martin regards him critically, if a little pained. “Are you sure?”

“I can handle it. Just, don’t grab.” 

“Maybe I don’t want to make you ‘handle’ it, and frankly it wouldn’t make me happy to know you were hurting yourself for my sake.” Martin goes to fidget with his hands, but plants them back on the floor, his fingers dancing nervously.

Jon feels a little lost, “I-” he tries, “then yes. Or, mostly. Just give me a warning?”

“Of course.” Martin says, “To follow up, what’s completely off limits?”

“Anything below my rib cage, uh-hmm...My shoulders? And ah, my neck.” His hand comes up reflexively and feels the uneven scarred skin under his fingers. He feels Martin’s eyes track the movement, but he doesn’t comment on it. 

“Alright.” Martin nods, “Thank you, Jon.”

Jon waits for more, for the real questions to come, for the sickly probing and invasive voyeurism he’s grown to expect from the world to manifest. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me about it.”

Martin shoots him a sharp, apprehensive look, “You said you didn’t want--”

“Yes, I know, but--” Jon snaps, and abruptly cuts himself off, his teeth clacking together. 

“Do you want me to ask you?” Martin asks, but he asks it like he already knows the answer.

Jon feels himself deflate, “No.”

“Then I won’t.” Martin shrugs one shoulder, “We don’t ever have to talk about it if you don’t want to. If you ever reach that point then sure, I’ll be there, but I’m not going to drag you to it kicking and screaming.”

“Oh.” The word escapes him on a breath, barely audible even in the quiet of their kitchen floor. It carries the weight of all the tension Jon had been holding onto until this point and he feels the last of his energy desert him. His eyelids droop heavily. 

“Why don’t you go back to sleep?” Martin suggests, stirring Jon out of his haze. “I’ll kip on the couch, you can have the bed. _No_ , that is non negotiable.” he adds, with a firm hand held up to buffer Jon’s feeble protests. 

As it is, Jon doesn’t feel up to arguing anyways, the drag toward sleep making his tongue feel heavy. He stands, his knees screaming in pain from the awkward angle they had been bent into sitting on the cold tiles. He’ll be feeling that in the morning. He’ll be feeling a lot in the morning.

Martin turns away from him to fuss with the couch and a little jolt of fear zips through him, jostling him to alertness. 

“Would you,” Jon starts. “would you come stay with me, next to the bed?” 

He’s afraid of waking up to the emptiness of the bedroom. Martin could be right outside the door, snoring away on the sofa, or he could have ghosted away in the night, finally pushed to his limit. He doesn’t think he’d have the courage to open the door in the morning to find out, he’d rather languish in the unknowing-- _who’s to say whether the cat is dead or alive?_

“Yeah, Jon, I can do that.” Martin says, and he looks as relieved as Jon feels, soothing that insistent fear back into silence.

As he settles back into bed, he turns on his side and faces the floor where Martin spreads blankets and cushions. He doesn’t take his eyes away from him, not as Martin finally lays down and pulls the blankets up over him in his makeshift bed. Not even when Martin catches him staring, and stares right back. Neither of them reach to turn the lights out. 

\--

Jon still doesn’t expect him to be there when he wakes, but there he is, reading a trashy romance novel courtesy of one ex-policewoman. Martin blinks up at him when he finally notices Jon is awake, and he smiles so softly it makes his heart ache. 

He doesn’t expect him to stay past breakfast, which is taken awkwardly at the dining table with the weight of last night’s revelations still heavy in the air around them. He stays, they do the laundry, they bicker over who gets to clean out the bathroom. 

Martin blooms in the tranquility of the cabin, hopelessly enamored with the simplicity and the charm of the nearby village. He speaks with a confidence Jon had only ever caught glimpses of, and telegraphs his movements as if they had been doing it for their entire lives. They learn to find comfort in each other, at a distance. 

It isn’t perfect, Jon isn’t the only one with trauma to unpack. On the days that Martin is sharp and uncaring, distant in an unnatural way, Jon brings him back with warm blankets and tea; with the sound of his voice, just his, not the Archivist’s, _his_. There are tears and hard days in which the both of them snarl and snap, things break--they break, but they come back together, mended with gold. 

And Martin stays.

Finding a solution for the sleeping arrangements had proven difficult right up until they discovered a foldaway cot in one of Daisy’s closets. It’s not very comfortable, even with the plethora of comforters and pillows they layer upon it. But it does quell that fear of sleeping alone, and they trade off who sleeps where every other night. 

It feels natural, and it’s the oddest few weeks of Jon’s life. 

Martin even starts sending him kisses, pressing them onto his palm and blowing them in his direction. It’s ridiculous, it’s charming, it makes him smile so warmly his face hurts. 

And yet, an idea nags at the back of his mind, growing bolder and bolder with every passing moment spent in Martin’s intoxicating presence. 

He watches Martin quite shamelessly, tracking the way he scrunches up his nose in distaste to whatever he’s reading, his quiet, indistinct mumbling that’s only meant for him to hear. More often then not, Jon finds himself tracing the lines of his face, his arms, his hands, those gently sloping curves that make Martin _Martin_. It makes his fingers itch with the strangest of hunger pangs. 

It’s like the moment touch became a tangible thing he could control, the more he wanted to initiate it. And, as subtly as he can, he tests the waters. An accidental bump into Martin as they prepare dinners, letting their fingers brush while passing dirty dishes to each other while they wash up. Once he had found the courage to drop his head into Martin’s lap. Granted there had already been a pillow there in the first place, but it still counted in Jon’s books.

It’s different then being on the receiving end, each brush is an electric shock. But he doesn't know if it's a good feeling.

Martin's reactions had been less then ideal, especially to that last stunt. He had a habit of yanking away whenever those curious touches occurred without the promised warning, stammering out apologies or even just sending Jon puzzled looks, like he’s trying to figure out what Jon wants from him. Unfortunately, Jon doesn’t really know himself. 

The idea continues to grow, seeding itself in the heart of him, until it’s strong enough to be spoken into reality.

"I'd like to try something." Jon blurts out one night. He winces at his own lack of tact, but Martin merely raises an eyebrow in his direction. 

"...Alright." he says.

"If you could just...I would like-hm." Jon frowns, taking a moment to try and collect his scrambled thoughts. "I would like to touch you." 

To Martin’s credit, he doesn’t look particularly startled. That or he’s hiding it well. "How do you mean?" he asks, carefully. He’s discarded his idle magazine page flipping in favor of turning his focus fully to Jon. 

"I don't know," Jon admits. 

Martin’s eyebrows furrow together, betraying a little of his frustration. 

“Okay,” Martin says, “okay, well, if you want this to go anywhere at all, I’m going to need a little more then that. A lot more, if I’m being honest.”

Jon bites back his groan. He knows what Martin wants from him. If Jon wants to get anything out of this, he’s going to have to use his words and _ask_.

“I don’t--touch is complicated,” Jon says, his restless hands find the corner of the blanket he has draped over his lap and start to tug and fidget. “I don’t like it, but I don’t know if that dislike is me or--other things. And certainly at this point it could be a mixture; I can’t deny that it’s part of me in some way but I don’t like that it is. I’m tired of contact being painful.”

He chances a glance up, and finds Martin watching him thoughtfully and ducks his head back down, twisting the blanket into a knot of fabric.

“I don’t know if it’s something I can change,” he continues, softer, “but I think this might be good for me, especially if I can back out at any point and have everything stop--that’s the most important part.”

Martin makes a small, heartbroken sound at that, “Jon, you have to know I’d never--”

“I know. I didn’t mean to imply.” Jon shakes his head apologetically. 

“You really want this then?” Martin asks. A couple years ago that sort of question would have made him bristle, double down on whatever it was just to prove a point. 

Now he just sighs. “Yes, I think so.”

“You aren’t sure?”

“I don’t think I can be,” Jon shrugs lightly, “I know it won’t magically fix everything, and that it might make it worse, I don’t _think_ it will, I can’t be sure, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take as long as you’re comfortable taking it with me.” he looks down again, suddenly bashful, “I want it to be with you because I-I trust you.” 

Trust. To him, trust is the name of a wild beast he seeks to nurture, hoping against hope that those sharp and many teeth only take what he wants to give. Others might be able to give it up freely, easily, but to Jon it was still a decision to be made, a transaction of faith.

He had already decided to trust Martin a lifetime ago. 

“Christ Jon, well when you put it like that,” Martin laughs a little helplessly, “of course, yeah, I’m here for you.” 

And in this honey hued morning light, it's impossible to mistake the reverential awe in his eyes.

\--

It doesn’t happen that night, nor the next. Jon waits-- _albeit impatiently_ \--until the residual terror has faded away, until he can think about the idea and feel more curiosity then apprehension at the premise. When that day comes, he goes to Martin with the request on his lips, and it doesn’t taste sour when he asks. He doesn’t feel dread where they sit on the bed, not touching quite yet, but close, looking at each other with mirrored expressions of hesitation. 

Martin fiddles with the hem of his shirt, his movements indescribably tense. “Should I take this off for you or--?”

Jon shakes his head, glad he’s not the only one equally off kilter. “Uhm, keep it on, for now maybe.” he manages to force out. “Unless you don’t want to take it off at all? I don’t want to force you into anything either, Martin.”

At that some of the tension Martin carries melts into a fond smile, still unsure, but warm. “I know, Jon. I trust you.”

Jon stalls a little at that. His mind still stutters in the presence of open affection, no matter how big or small the gesture. 

When he finally wrests back control over his brain again he gestures for Martin to move and Martin sits back on the bed, first hunched over, then straightening as an afterthought. He looks up at Jon, expectant and still just a little nervous and waves his arms out in a flourish of ‘ _well go on then_ ’.

It takes every ounce of Jon’s courage to crawl across the bedspread, to meet Martin’s eye and raise his hand tentatively, until it stretches the great expanse between them. Jon freezes up almost immediately, his hand hovering against the heat of Martin's cheek. He hates the tremble that works down his wrist, the prickling discomfort that burns like a brand upon his senses. It is no small feat to push past that barrier, but it’s a push he makes of his own free will, with the control solely in his hands.

Martin’s skin is soft, uneven under his fingertips from old acne scars. It immediately flushes, throwing every birthmark and freckle into stark relief. Jon is unable to mask his shaky exhale as it rattles out of him, the tension within him imploding like a bomb in his ribcage. 

He’s a little gratified to feel Martin startle at the touch as well, and his next breath is steadier.

Every point of contact burns slightly, but there’s something underneath it, a different kind of warmth that the skin starved depths of his mind latches onto like a wild animal and he cannot help but trace two fingertips across one cheek to the corner of Martin’s eye; gently smoothing the crows’ feet that crinkle back at him. 

“You’ve got a look on your face like someone’s gone and kicked your cat,” Martin says, his face pulling down into a grimace. “do we need to stop?”

“No!” Jon blurts, and they share a wince at his volume, “No, this is...” 

Martin waits, but when it becomes clear Jon has no intentions of continuing, he rolls his eyes. “Words, Jon.”

He cradles Martin’s cheeks in his hands, pinkies curling under the softness of his jaw. It squishes his face together, and Martin huffs out a breathless, nervous laugh. Jon puts his thumbs over those laugh lines, his touch unhurried. “It’s a lot,” Jon settles on.

“In a...bad way?”

“No,”

Martin swallows, throat bobbing and Jon’s attention splits, fixates, his hands following. He maps the underside of Martin’s jaw; carding through the patchy hairs and seeking out the jack rabbit pulse in his neck, the tacky feel of sweat on the pads of his fingers.

“In a good way?” Martin croaks out.

“Maybe?”

“ _Jon_ ,” 

Jon shushes him and ignores the following affronted yet amused exclamation he gets in return. His hands have followed a path to his chest, just above his heart he can feel that same pulse, but fainter; blocked by soft, cottony fabric. Irritated by the offending barrier, he tugs impatiently at the collar before he knows what he’s doing, and recoils back. 

Martin simply leans back far enough to pull the t-shirt up and over his head, and then there is nothing but soft skin, folded and warm, and openly offered. 

“D’you want me to, uh…?” Martin cuts himself off, and settles on gesturing vaguely to his waistline. 

Jon considers. When he shakes his head, Martin looks almost relieved. “This is good,” he says, “you’re beautiful.” he adds, and hopes the sincerity wins out over the sheer awkwardness. 

Martin twitches, an explosion of red overtakes his face and spreads like a wildfire all the way down his chest and shoulders. He makes another half hearted protesting noise, strangled, but it fades quickly as Jon sets his palm flat against his chest. Jon stays there, marveling at the natural wonder of it; feeling his ribcage rise and fall, stutteringly at first, then slower, as Martin fights to regulate his breathing. 

Goosebumps break out under his fingertips, spreading with a shiver.

“Are you cold?” Jon asks. 

“N-no.” Martin replies. Another little shiver works through him and Jon shoots him a doubtful look. “It’s not from the cold,” Martin admits, though he doesn’t elaborate further.

“Now who’s not using their words,” Jon says airily, drumming his fingers in a satisfying pattern. He does it again, and again. 

“I’m-!” Martin exclaims, his arms coming up in outcry. Jon tenses and they drop back down, apologetic. “You’re a git sometimes.” 

Jon smiles, “Yes, now please hold out your arm?”

Martin makes a show of huffing and puffing, but he smiles back, arm dutifully proffered. 

Jon takes Martin’s wrist and lifts his arm out, turning it around one way and then the other with intense concentration; there are scars, the ones he knows intimately, worm swirls against the skin, rough and burrowing, yet healed. Yet more lay across Martin’s wrists, over the delicate skin of his pulse, thin and whispery. 

He almost brings them to his mouth, half a mind to kiss away a long gone hurt. He doesn’t. Instead he finds several birthmarks, and presses his thumb to a few of them, chases their trail down to the heel of Martin’s palm.

“You are,” Martin wiggles his fingers, “ _so_ lucky I’m not ticklish,” he says, his voice so full of fond amusement that Jon has to look up, only to be struck dumb by the full force of Martin’s gaze.

Jon knows Martin loves him, factually. It is another matter entirely to see it displayed so plainly across his face. He can’t remember a time in which another person’s gaze had felt so encompassing without being consuming. Martin’s smile is wobbly, but the adoration behind it never wavers for even a moment, like it’s cemented into the lines crinkling the corners of his eyes. He feels seen, known in the human way. Martin loves him, Martin is _in love_ with him. 

Martin snorts at his gobsmacked expression, “Is there something on my face-?” 

Jon rearranges their hands, palm to palm; their shaking fingertips meet, searing, the contact so chaste as to be barely there. Slowly, Jon misaligns their fingers, letting them tangle. 

For a moment there’s that familiar, terrible surge of fear. That the careful touch might turn bruising, caging, consuming. Hands holding his, holding him down, keeping him from getting away. Then Martin takes his wrist--slowly, without expectations--and turns it just so, almost a mirror of Jon’s explorations, and his hand is cradled in Martin’s instead; scarred and battered palm skyward, supported, not caught. 

A finger brushes across the burned, melted remains with tenderness, as if committing every detail to memory. 

Jon’s vision blurs.

Warm fingertips brushing his palm, is that all it takes? Is this the level of fragility he is consigned to, shattering to pieces at the slightest whisper of love? Tears fall unbidden and sudden, heralded by his frustration. This _can’t_ be it, he won’t let this be his limit. Martin deserves better then this. 

Martin starts to say something, a question poised on the tip of his tongue-- _are you alright, is this okay?_

“May I try something…?” Jon asks before he can, and his gaze flits down to Martin’s lips, and then back up to his eyes. His free hand winds upwards into the thicket of hair at the base of Martin’s skull. 

There’s a breathless moment, stretching on for eternity as a flicker of confusion passes through Martin, then surprise--or is it concern?--then, a minute, but intentional nod.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, why he’s so determined to push. It pulls him forward, closer and closer, watching transfixed as Martin’s eyelashes flutter. In one fell swoop, he falls into that unswayable gravity and presses his lips to Martin’s. 

It’s not even a kiss, just enough to get a feel of the warm skin, and away in the span of a second, before Martin can lean into him. The sensation is sharp, a sudden scream of hot static across his lips. It leaves them singing, singed.

It leaves him hollow, uncomfortable.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Martin rasps out, his hand raised to touch his lips. There are tears in his eyes now, to Jon’s distant horror. 

“I’m sorry, that was--” _a mistake_. He hates how quickly the word springs to mind, he hates the truth of it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to hurt you,”

Martin closes his eyes and takes a very deliberate, deep breath, the first of the tears falling from his lashes as he shakes his head. "You can do anything you want, I really, _really_ don’t mind, especially not--that. But it clearly hurt _you_ ,” he says, kind and caring, even now and Jon _hates_ it. “do you need me to stop touching you?”

“Yes. No--I don’t _know_. I wish I could make this simple,” Jon rasps, perhaps nonsensically, frustration souring his words. “all of this, I don’t want to burden you with _any_ of it.”

“Nothing about our lives was ever going to be simple,” Martin says gently, “I wouldn’t have it easy, anyways, what would loving you be without complexity?” 

That startles a laugh out of him, a reedy little thing desperate to be happy. “Would you love me like this, at a distance?” 

Martin looks at him quietly for a moment, then he says, “I have for a long time.”

Jon feels something inside him chill, nearly extinguishing his seething frustration. “I’m sorry.”

“No more apologizing.” Martin scolds, “I would love you like that again. I would love you if we never touched or even spoke for the rest of our lives. I would, and I _will_ , love you like this. And this--” he taps a gentle beat into Jon’s palm, “--is so much more then I could have ever dreamed of, it’s not a _compromise_. Anything you’re willing to give me is enough.” 

“What if I--what if it’s not enough?” Jon challenges, but Martin is already speaking over him. 

“Nope, you don’t get to decide!” Martin declares, “I am officially in charge of deciding how much of Jonathan Sims is good enough and I believe I already told you the answer.”

“You’re being difficult,” Jon accuses.

“Says pot to kettle,” Martin shoots back. 

For a beat, all they do is glare at each other, and then all at once the sheer absurdity of it all has a disbelieving smile tugging at his lips as he watches Martin struggle to contain his own. Both of them a mess, sniffling with faces flushed. There’s a watery chuckle from one of them, then a giggle, then full blown laughter--laughter so fragile it’s seconds from turning back around into tears, but laughter nonetheless. 

“That was a bit dramatic, wasn’t it?” Martin sighs, swiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye.

“I don’t know," Jon says, his smile widening, “I’m still wondering whether you’d still love me if you never see me again--or if you see me every Tuesday,”

Martin stares blankly at him, then he groans. His skin, already rosy from breathless laughter, flushes darker still, “Oh, _shut up_ ,” 

“I’m just saying, I expected better then plagiarizing from my favorite poet.”

“First of all, that was not plagiarizing! I completely forgot that quote even existed!” Martin quips, “And secondly-” his indignation falters, “favorite poet?”

Jon cringes, and suddenly it’s his turn to hide his gaze, “Oh, I didn’t say that, did I.”

“ _Favorite_ , you said _favorite_.” Martin says, with far too much delight. “Are you going off that stuff you found after Prentiss? Because that wasn’t even good.”

“I thought it was good.” Jon mumbles.

“Oh my god,” Martin curls into himself with a helpless giggle. “You are unbelievable. Practically spill my guts to you and _you_ tease _me!_ ” He shakes his head with mock hurt and Jon laughs.

“Only a little bit,” Jon lets his smile fade, “Honestly I might, er, ask you to say it again?” Jon says, his voice lilting it into a question. “I’m not used to--any of that, and well, it was rather nice to hear, even if it’s hard to believe. Only if you want to, of course, I wouldn’t want make you think your love is only good to me when you’re speaking it candidly, I know a lot about love languages from what I researched and I believe I can read into yours quite--”

“ _Jon_ ,” Martin cuts in and his smile is shy and fond, “I think I could stand to say it again. Even if it over inflates your already enormous ego.”

Jon and his aforementioned ego predictably bruise like an overripe fruit, even as his heart flutters. He means to say something back, something lighthearted or funny, but what comes out is a breathless, “Oh,” 

Regardless of how teasing, the words ease the knots of doubt within him; not entirely, but enough that the residual tension shifts, ebbing away and taking his ability to stay upright with it. He lets himself fall gently back onto the bedding, taking Martin down with him without protest. 

Sunlight drips through the window like honey, painting them in hues of pale yellow and pink, a gentle reminder that the world goes on, that it continues outside of this moment. Like this, he could imagine them falling asleep; he would lean in, entangled in the sheets, and press a kiss to Martin’s temple, soft as light. They would close that distance to curl around each other until there was no telling of where one ended and another began. 

It’s an overwhelming thought, but it stays just that; a thought. He lets himself want those things, rose hued as they are, and he lets them go.

“Thank you,” he whispers, knuckles brushing over Martin’s cheek tenderly, marveling as he leans his face up into the touch. “thank you,” he repeats, trying to press everything he doesn’t say into those two words. 

How much it means to him, how much it matters to feel in control of his own body, in the way his skin feels. That Martin will take him like this, pinky finger to pinky finger--or even less then that, and he won’t ask for anymore. It’s the first time he’s felt grounded in a way without terror, and the difference is thrown into stark, earth shattering relief. 

He hasn’t the words for them today, and he might not find them for the rest of his life. But he thinks Martin might understand.


End file.
